Dazai Osamu was many things: a genius detective, a notorious schemer, and a relentless flirt. But one thing he never thought he'd be was a man sitting in the waiting room of a luxury esthetics clinic. He had been persuaded—no, bullied—by Kunikida into "self-care," under the guise that it might improve his work ethic. Begrudgingly, he had made the appointment, already plotting ways to make the experience as chaotic as possible.

The clinic was immaculate, all gleaming marble and soft lighting, the faint scent of lavender in the air. Dazai leaned back in his chair, flipping idly through a magazine he had no intention of reading. He wasn’t here for pampering; he was here to not work.

Meanwhile, Chuuya Nakahara adjusted his pristine white uniform in the employee lounge, muttering curses under his breath. This wasn’t what he imagined when he agreed to help a friend cover shifts at the clinic. He was a mafioso, for crying out loud, not someone who massaged moisturizers into strangers’ faces. Still, a promise was a promise, and Chuuya prided himself on keeping his word.

The two men had not crossed paths in months, and neither had any reason to believe they would today. But as fate would have it, Chuuya’s next appointment—and Dazai’s unfortunate esthetician—were one and the same.

The receptionist appeared at the doorway, a bright smile plastered across her face. “Mr. Dazai? Your esthetician will see you now.”

With a dramatic sigh, Dazai rose to his feet, fully prepared to charm or torment whoever dared to touch his skin. He pushed open the treatment room door, ready to deliver a witty quip—only to freeze in place.

On the other side of the room, Chuuya Nakahara turned around, his expression shifting from professional neutrality to sheer disbelief.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Chuuya?!”

For a moment, the two stared at each other, both equally horrified.

And then, in perfect unison, they said: “What the hell are you doing here?!”